


27 years, but who's counting?

by carefulren



Category: IT (2019), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: A little angst, Adult Eddie Kaspbrak, Adult Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Adult Richie Tozier, Alternate Universe, Closeted Character, Complicated Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Hypochondriac, M/M, Multi, Whump, okay i said a little angst but there may be more later, pennywise who?, people with issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-10-26 15:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20744732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefulren/pseuds/carefulren
Summary: While looking for pain killers in a New York drugstore to ease a bloody nose and swelling hand after a show, Richie bumps into Eddie... after 27 years.





	1. one

It’s late when Richie stumbles into a local New York drugstore with a bloody nose and a swelling hand. He gets some weary side-eyed glances from an elderly couple, and because he looks like he just staggered away from a bar fight, he plays the part and leans toward them with a lazy smirk.

“You should see the other guy,” he mutters to the couple, laughing hollowly under his breath when they shuffle away from him with as much haste as their fossils for bones can take them. He almost wishes his improvised story was true—that he decked some douche in a bar after a drunken shouting “my dick is bigger than your dick” match, but reality can never hold a candle to the scenarios he lies through with ease.

No, reality is tripping down four steps backstage after a show thanks to seven shots of whiskey that can’t seem to burn away the nerves that twist in his stomach. His face collided with the metal railing, and his hand twisted against his weight when he tried and failed to not completely eat the ground.

No one saw, a small blessing he supposes, and his Uber driver chose to only shoot him a disapproving look as he rattled off the address to the small hole-in-the-wall pharmacy that stays open later than most.

He scans name-brand pain killers until he spots the off-brand Ibuprofen he’s grown accustomed to—the only one that can touch his hangovers, and he snags it with his good hand, cradling his other to his chest as he walks toward the register.

“I don’t understand why you’re being so difficult!”

Richie arches one brow and spares a half-glance toward the pharmacy as he waits his turn to check out.

“Sir, we close at ten on Saturdays.”

“I know that—you think I don’t know that? It’s on the sign! However, I called you earlier and told you I was coming in for a refill!”

“And I told you on the phone that we close at ten on Saturdays.”

“I was at work!”

“Sir—”

Normally, Richie stays out of squabbles such as this one because he can’t muster up enough energy to care, but his head is throbbing from the alcohol and the whole face to metal bannister ordeal, so he turns on his heel and sucks in a breath, prepared to shut this asshole up, but his eyes meet dark eyes with tired, worried creases, and his chest swells until it’s tight, restricted.

“Eddie..?”

Eddie opens and closes his mouth silently, over and over as if the right words to say are almost there but can’t quite catch to his tongue, and Richie takes a step forward, abandoning his place in line.

“Eddie… is that you?”

“Richie?”

Richie can’t believe that after God knows how many years apart with no contact, Eddie Fucking Kaspbrak can squeeze the breath out of his lungs with a single whisper of his name. “Holy shit,” he gasps out because his brain is currently functioning at low capacity.

“Holy shit is right!” Eddie begins, voice growing in volume. “The first time I see you in 27 years, and you’re covered in blood!” In seconds, Eddie closes the remaining distance between the two and curls warm fingers around Richie’s jaw to inspect the mess of a nose from different angles.

“What the hell happened? Jesus, Richie, look at your hand.” Eddie prods at Richie’s swollen wrist lightly, lips pulling into a frown when Richie winces. “You’re a mess right now. This could be broken, same with your nose. You should be in a hospital right now!”

Richie can only blink owlishly at Eddie’s frantic words spilling from his tongue, and the only singular thought his malfunctioning brain can hone in on as Eddie drags him out of the store is 27 years.

Eddie’s been keeping count for 27 years.

*****

“Ow, Dr. K, Jesus, be fucking gentle,” Richie curses out through clenched teeth. He’s on a bench outside the drugstore, and Eddie’s crouched in front of him, wedged easily between his legs to dab at his bloody nose with supplies from a first aid kid stowed away in a car that looks way to big and way to expensive for Eddie Fucking Kaspbrak.

“Dr. K,” Eddie mutters along a sigh as he wipes blood gently away from Richie’s face. “I’m surprised you didn’t use the accent.”

“Ah, well, I left all my wit on the ground when I forgot how to walk down some steps.” Richie’s heart stutters in his chest when Eddie pushes his glasses up into his hair to inspect the bruising around the bridge of his nose.

“You fell?” Eddie frowns, and Richie hates it—he never wants to see the painted look of concern on Eddie’s face. “Richie, this could seriously be broken.”

“Well maybe it will finally fix some of this ugly I’ve been sporting since popping out of the womb.” He means to jest—to lighten the mood, anything to melt that frown off Eddie’s face, but his tone, though light, lacks the usual heart and ease, and Eddie, ever the astute, catches on.

Eddie freezes, hand hovering just inches from Richie’s face. “Richie, you aren’t ugly. You’re unique.”

Richie laughs at this, a meaningful laugh that loosens some of the tightness in his chest, and he keeps laughing, even as he winces from the burning pain that shoots across his nose.

“Come back to my place.”

In just seconds, the tightness is back full force, feeling as if large, slender fingers are gripping at Richie’s lungs and squeezing.

“My wife is away for the week with our neighbor’s housekeeper, so…”

Richie doesn’t hear the rest. His heart deflates back to the size it’s been since the first day he met Eddie Kaspbrak, and he lets out a quiet sigh. “Wife, huh? Who’s the unlucky lady?”

And just like that, his brief moment of repeated heartbreak is erased behind poor jokes and an easy half-smile, but Eddie doesn’t react with a sense of rage Richie is expecting. Instead, Eddie’s eyes cast down, and his shoulders slump forward.

“Yeah, it’s… uh… it’s complicated.”

There’s a color of finality in Eddie’s tone that all but screams at Richie to not press forward, so instead, he tilts his head, a silent invite for Eddie to make the next move.

“Just… don’t worry about that and come over. Please? I want to properly treat your nose and hand, and you will need to be monitored for a concussion.”

Richie tucks Eddie’s wife away into a mental box labeled “to be revisited at a more appropriate time,” and he rolls his eyes as Eddie prattles on about how Richie could potentially die if he sleeps alone while he’s injured.

“You know,” Richie interrupts when Eddie pulls him to his feet. “There are other ways to get a person in bed with you—”

“Richie Tozier, you are absolutely insufferable!”

Despite the pain rooted deep within him, Richie laughs, and for the first time, he feels how he felt 27 years ago back in Derry, Maine.


	2. two

Eddie’s house, Richie thinks, eyeing gel grips covering pointed table edges and safety inserts plugged into otherwise open outlets, is very… childproof. “Does your wife have your kid, too?” His voice echoes lightly off the walls—the house is too big, too open and empty.

“What?” Eddie asks as he digs around the medicine cabinet. “We don’t have any kids.”

Huh. Richie’s finger ghosts across a wedding photo resting on a side table beside a worn-down recliner that’s seen better days. In the photo, Eddie looks… Richie tilts his head. Sad isn’t the word necessarily—he just looks empty, hollow, like his house.

“…bandage your hand, and then—Richie?”

“What?” Richie moves away from the picture and spins around a little too fast for his pounding head. His vision sways, and he reaches out to grip the side table until his knuckles fade to white. “What did you say?”

“You look—” Eddie cuts himself off with a low sigh. “You’re really pale. Jesus, just sit down before you pass out.”

Richie complies and begins to ease himself onto the couch, stopping with bent knees when Eddie holds both hands up frantically.

“No, not there! You’ll get blood everywhere. Here, just—” Eddie crosses the room until he’s beside Richie, and he snakes a slender arm around Richie’s waist. “Lean on me, okay? We’ll go to the bathroom.”

Walking is way more difficult than Richie originally expected, but he’s pretty sure it’s the alcohol buzz flitting away and not the fact that he bashed his face into a banister. He leans into Eddie and tries his hardest to not focus on how perfectly Eddie fits against his side as he’s led into the bathroom and gently pushed down onto the edge of an abnormally big bathtub.

“Shirt off.”

“Wow, Eds, I mean—if you have a thing for bathtub sex, I can be down—”

“Richie, shut the fuck up,” Eddie spits out, turning his face away to hide his smile. “You have blood all over it.”

Richie tugs his shirt off, wincing when he jostles his swollen hand. He’s about to drop it to the floor, but Eddie catches it with an annoyed look and drops it in a laundry basket before turning back toward Richie.

“You’ve, uh, you’ve filled out.” Eddie mutters, and Richie smirks as he watches Eddie’s eyes drink in his broad shoulders.

“Are you calling me fat? Because I’ve discovered that if you squint really hard, it kind of looks like I have, like, a three-pack.”

“What? No, you’re just—you’re—all tall and shit.”

“Well said,” Richie laughs out loud, and Eddie rolls his eyes for the ninth time in the last hour.

“Just shut the fuck up and hold your hand out,” Eddie spits out, mumbling “Jesus Christ” under his breath as he begins bandaging Richie’s hand.

It hurts. Richie bites the inside of his cheek, but he stays silent, choosing instead to watch the way Eddie’s hands move almost methodically, only breaking out of the system every few seconds to take on a brief, softer movement of a thumb lingering on his hand or an index finger trailing gently over more intense swollen points. Eddie finishes too fast for Richie’s liking, and Richie has to choke back a disappointed sigh.

“How does that feel? Too tight?”

“No, it’s great. It feels great.” Richie rolls his hand in a slow, circular motion, taking mental note that it actually hurts a little less now.

“Perfect,” Eddie gets to his feet and rustles through the medicine cabinet once more. “Now put this bag over the bandages and take a shower. You literally have blood in your hair. I’ll get you some clean clothes.”

Before Richie can interject, Eddie’s out the room, closing the door softly behind him. Richie waits for a few minutes, eyes trained intently on the door, but it’s quiet on the other side, so he finally complies.

The shower, like most things in Eddie’s house, is really nice. Richie puts the water as cold as it can possibly go and steps under the spray. The water pooling at his feet turns a light red, and he focuses on that until his brain drifts toward thoughts he was hoping the cold water would freeze away—to Eddie, Eddie’s lips, his hands, his eyes, his touch…

He shakes his head, water droplets flinging against the frosted glass surrounding him, and finishes washing himself as quickly as he can manage with shaking hands. He stays just long enough to make sure the water is no longer painted an unsettling red, and then he hops out, teeth chattering as he fumbles for the large towel hanging up for him. Squinting, he searches borderline blindly for his glasses until he spots them resting atop a pile of folded clothes that, even without glasses on, look entirely too fucking small.

*****

“Eddie, I can’t wear these,” Richie gripes out as he steps out of the bathroom. The shirt, a navy blue, short-sleeve New York Mets top, rests right at his belly button, and the pants, a pair of gray sweats, look like the distant cousin to high waters, stopping just a little below his knee. “This looks like a fucking crop top, Eddie—are you fucking laughing?”

Eddie has a couch pillow pressed to his face, and his shoulders are shaking.

“Eddie, you little shit,” Richie curses, but his tone holds no heat, and a smile creeps at the corners of his lips when Eddie moves the pillow away to reveal a wide, goofy smile—one that shoots at his heart like a pistol piercing his chest.

“You look ridiculous.”

“Of course I fucking do,” Richie spits out around a deep laugh. He shivers when a cold drop of water falls from his hair, and Eddie gets up from the couch with a slight frown.

“Cold? I can try to find a pullover, or…” Eddie’s hand brushes against Richie’s bare arm, “fuck! You’re ice cold, Richie! What the fuck?”

Eddie’s fingers are tightly wrapped around Richie’s wrist, and he’s pulled into a guest bedroom and shoved onto the bed. There are at least twelve sex jokes bouncing through Richie’s head, but Eddie’s moving so fast, Richie can’t fully grasp a single word. He can only watch as Eddie wraps blanket after blanket around him before he’s being eased down against the pillow with Eddie’s arms wrapped around him.

“Eddie—uh—”

“Do not make a sex joke right now, Richie. You’re freezing. Did you take a cold shower?”

“Well—”

“Jesus Christ, Richie—hypothermia’s a thing, don’t you know this? You have a fucked up nose, and a fucked up hand, and now you want to add hypothermia to this?”

“Eddie—”

“I mean why are you doing this to yourself. It’s the first time we see each other in 27 years, and I think you’re trying to give me a damn heart attack, and—”

“Eddie!” Richie manages to push the blankets off of him enough to free his hands, and he cups his bandaged hand to Eddie’s cheek. “I’m fine—I just needed to clear my head. I’m already feeling warmer. Just take a breath.”

Eddie obeys silently, and Richie doesn’t make a comment when Eddie leans lightly into his hand. He only watches the steadying rise and fall of Eddie’s chest until it’s at a speed that doesn’t have Richie’s heart threatening to leap up his throat.

“Inhaler?”

“I—” Eddie stops and sucks in a measured breath. “No? That’s… strange. I don’t think I need it.” He moves away from Richie’s hand until he’s lying flat on his back, clouded eyes staring up at the ceiling.

Richie frowns at the hesitance coloring Eddie’s tone. “Why so blue, Eds? That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Y-yeah, it is.”

The two fall silent, with only the sounds of quiet breaths dancing between the two, but after what feels like endless minutes, Eddie clears his throat.

“Are you warmer now?”

“Yep,” Richie says, popping the ‘p.’

“Good,” Eddie says, and Richie can’t help but pull all of his focus toward the off-sounding sense of confusion in Eddie’s tone. He wants to dissect it, to understand what Eddie’s tone is trying to convey, but it doesn’t feel like the right time. Funny, they’ve been together for a little over an hour, and nothing has felt like the right time.

“You should sleep. I’ll make sure you won’t slip into a coma and die.”

Richie briefly contemplates arguing because he’s not concussed, but he’s in bed… with Eddie Fucking Kaspbrak after 27 years apart. Yes, he’s aware that it’s selfish of him to take advantage of Eddie’s concern, but 27 years of pining after the one that got away, cue Katy Perry in the background, will do that to a guy. So, he keeps his mouth shut, something that’s become both easier and harder the older he’s gotten, and allows his eyes to slip closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably shouldn't write Bill Hader as Richie when watching Bill Hader as Barry, but here we are. 
> 
> (Also, I wasn't necessarily planning on adding to this, but I have a story kind of unfolding in my mind, so we shall see where it goes.)
> 
> Hope everyone enjoys!


	3. three

Richie comes to like a wave in the ocean. The lift from slumber is a slow swell that rises until it peaks, and all at once, it crashes. His eyes fly open because every inch of his skin is buzzing from Eddie’s back pressed to his chest. His arm is draped over Eddie, and his good hand is resting atop Eddie’s arm, each finger pad tingling against Eddie’s too soft skin. His brain is fuzzy from sleep, but it doesn’t take long to supply the “big spoon” thought against “perfect fit.”

For just a moment, he allows his eyes to slip closed once more so that he can soak in every second of this moment. He wants to breathe in Eddie’s scent until it becomes a nostalgic smell that he will always remember. He wants to memorize the way Eddie’s body is practically molded perfectly against his—the curve of Eddie’s back tucked snug against his chest.

It’s not the first time he’s slept with Eddie like this. Their childhood was filled with shared-bed sleepovers. They’d always start separately, one in the bed and one on the floor, but sometime during the night, they would reach out to one another, as if they needed touch to breathe, and they would end up together, whether on the floor or in the bed.

Eddie never thought anything of it—Richie knows this. He knew it then, and he knows it now, and he never told Eddie his deep, dark secret—he’s never told anyone. Like many things in his life, he’s tucked “Gay” away into a mental box in his mind—a box that holds just one, singular item within those dark, enclosed walls: Eddie.

He opens his eyes, a deep sigh puffing past his lips from trembling lungs supporting a cracked heart. One by one, he lifts his fingers from Eddie’s arm so he doesn’t wake him, and very, very slowly, he slides away from Eddie. The bed creaks under his weight, and he holds his breath as he slips off the bed. To his surprise, Eddie doesn’t stir, and Richie spares a moment now that he’s out of bed to look at Eddie’s face.

Eddie looks at peace—the worry lines from before have smoothed out, and his lips are curled up into a breath of a smile, one that Richie matches. He drinks in this moment with wide, studying eyes until he turns away—one of the hardest decisions he’s ever made. He grabs his clothes from the bathroom hamper, shrugs into his leather jacket, then toes into his boots and lets himself out of the house.

He pulls up his Uber app as he walks down the winding driveway, requesting a pickup at a local diner a few blocks from Eddie’s house. With thirty minutes until arrival, Richie plucks a cigarette from his jacket pocket, a habit he picked up from Bev an eternity ago, and lights the end with a semi-rusted, copper lighter. A deep inhale of nicotine clears his thoughts, and he holds it, allowing the smoky substance to coat his lungs and cloud his mind before exhaling.

A few joggers shoot him judging frowns, and he’s not sure if it’s because his face is black and blue or if it’s because he’s still sporting a shirt that looks like a crop top paired with too short sweatpants, a leather jacket, and thick black boots. Hell, he would give himself a judging look if he could. He offers a shrug to the joggers, who run a little faster, and sighs loudly.

He makes it to the diner ten minutes later and orders a coffee, only black, while he waits.

“Rough night?” a woman at the table beside him asks as he takes a long swig of coffee. It burns his tongue, but he doesn’t care—the pain keeps him alert and grounded. He spares a glance toward the woman.

“Contrary to how it looks, it was a great night actually.” To his surprise, the woman moves from her table to his, and he arches a brow but remains silent.

“You’re a Mets fan?”

“What?”

The woman nods down to his shirt, and he follows her gaze. “Oh, yeah. Go Mets.” His voice is lackluster, but he cracks a forced smile anyway.

“My husband is a huge fan,” the woman starts. “He insists we watch every single game. Oh, that Eddie… I’ve been away, and I’ve just missed him too much.”

Richie freezes, coffee mug right in front of his mouth. “Eddie?” He asks, voice small.

“Yeah, Eddie Kaspbrak. He’s a Risk Analyst—maybe you’ve met him before?”

Holy fucking shit. That is the only thought Richie can muster up. Holy. Fucking. Shit. “I—uh—I don’t think so, but Risk Analyst, huh? That sounds really… fancy?” From his peripheral, he spots an Uber pull up, and, while he’s not sure if it’s for him, he holds onto a strong hope that it is.

“Well, that’s my ride. It was nice meeting you… Mrs. Kaspbrak.” He extends his bandaged hand, laughing awkwardly when he realizes, and drops it back to his side as he slaps a five dollar bill on the table.

“Hey, aren’t you that comedian? Richie Tozier?”

Richie freezes at the door, craning his neck to look back at Eddie’s wife.

“Uh, yeah,” he mutters sheepishly.

“Wow, my Eddie is never going to believe this. He watches your shows all the time on the internet!”

And, Richie thinks, just like fucking clockwork, his heart sputters in his chest, beating far too fast to be considered normal, and he knows he can’t blame that on the caffeine. “Uh, always good to hear from fans,” Richie mutters out some scripted bullshit one of his managers trained him in then throws the door open. He races toward the Uber, not quite running but walking fast enough to look suspicious, and hops into the car.

“Mr. Tozier?”

Thank you, Richie thinks. “Yep. That’s me.” He rattles off the address to the hotel he’s staying at and leans his head back against the headrest with a low sigh. His mind is racing almost as fast as his heart, but he can’t decide if he wants to focus on the fact that Eddie watches his stand-up acts or that Eddie’s wife is the unfortunate spitting image of his fucking character of a mother.

*****

“Mr. Tozier?”

Richie looks up from his tall glass of whiskey on the rocks to see his manager’s assistant standing before him. “Yes?”

“There’s someone here to see you.”

“Can you tell them I’m a little busy?” Richie asks before taking a long swig.

From behind his dressing room door, Richie hears a familiar voice shout, “Oh, fuck off, Richie! Let me in!”

The whiskey never makes it down his throat. He chokes, turning his head to spit warm alcohol onto the carpet through burning, barking coughs. “F-fuck. Let him in,” he sputters, and his manager’s assistant, Bridgett he thinks, nods with a frown before allowing his guest in.

“You could have woken me up, you know. You didn’t have to just up and leave without saying goodbye. I mean, fuck, Richie, it’s been 27 years. How’s your face? Why’re you coughing so much?”

Richie holds up a hand as he hacks through the remaining whiskey that snuck down the wrong pipe, and after a few moments, he’s able to clear his throat without feeling as if he can’t properly suck in a breath. “Choking… I’m fine—my face is fine. And, I didn’t want to wake you.”

“27 years, Richie—”

“I know,” Richie starts. “You keep reminding me of that.” Eddie has a fire in his eyes that Richie is familiar with, so he says the one thing he can think of that will most certainly douse the flames.

“So, uh, I met your wife today… You sure she’s not a Kaspbrak by blood?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be Oct. 4th!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy! It's not perfect, but I am enjoying writing it.


	4. four

“The show was good,” Eddie starts over dinner at some swanky five-star restaurant Richie insisted on because of the private backroom dining area. “You were good.”

“Yeah, your wife told me you watch my stuff,” Richie says. He doesn’t mean for his tone to be so deadpan, heated yet heartless—it just kind of happens without really trying. He’s bitter—bitter that Eddie is married to someone other than him, yet to his surprise, Eddie’s cheeks paint a deep pink, and he can’t help but tilt his head in silent question.

“Look, Richie, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Why the hell did you marry your mother?’’’ Eddie sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose when Richie raises both brows in mock surprise. “Don’t give me that look—I know that’s exactly what you’re thinking. She looks, sounds, and acts just like my mother.” At this, Eddie drops his head down onto his folded arms, and Richie opts to remain silent because Eddie’s opening the mental box Richie created last night.

“I don’t know… My mother introduced us, and she kind of—she kind of just pressured me into dating her.”

“So, you don’t love her?”

“That’s all you got out of that?” Eddie shoots his head up and spits out sharply.

Richie admits to himself that it was a bold question; however, he’s never been one to have a filter. Guess this is a real “beep, beep, Richie” kind of moment. Whoops.

“Sorry, no. Shit… just… go on with your story.” Richie meets Eddie’s sharp gaze with, what he hopes is, encouraging eyes.

“So, we started dating, and… I wasn’t planning on proposing, really. I had this ring that belonged to my mother, and I was just putting it away when she saw it and assumed it was for her.”

Richie arches both brows at this. There are, at least, a million things burning at the tip of his tongue, but for Eddie’s sake, he stays silent.

“I tried to tell her that she was misunderstanding my actions, but there was a lot of excited screaming from her, and I just got swept away in the moment. Now here we are, coming up on our ten-year anniversary.”

“Ten years,” Richie whistles a low whistle. “That’s a hell of a time, Eds.” He pauses, contemplating his next words carefully. “Are you… are you happy?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Is that a no?”

“No, it means it’s fucking complicated,” Eddie snaps, face instantly falling to that of regret. “Sorry, it’s just a lot to talk about.”

Richie nods. “Well, as you’ve been reminding me since we met up, it’s been 27 years. We’ve got a shit ton more to talk about—like the fact that you’re a risk analyst. What even is that? It sounds fake as fuck—”

“—it’s not fucking fake!” Eddie shouts, taking on his usual, light-hearted yet heated tone that Richie knows oh so well. “It’s a real fucking job, and it’s fucking hard!”

“Yeah?” Richie probes. “Tell me all about it.”

*****

“And do you remember when Stan—” Eddie fumbles with the zipper of Richie’s leather jacket that practically swallows his smaller frame and sways in rhythm with the alcohol coursing through his blood, and Richie, sporting an incredibly higher tolerance, snakes a long arm around Eddie’s waist to steady him.

“Easy, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie laughs out, and Eddie tenses up, back going rigid against his arm. “Eddie?”

“It’s been so long,” Eddie mutters, eyes cast somewhere Richie figures he wouldn’t be able to see even if he tried.

“What?”

“It’s been so long since you’ve called me that.”

“27 years, but who’s counting?” Richie says with a small smirk that doesn’t reflect the hint of concern coloring his eyes.

“I’ve missed it,” Eddie starts, voice sounding a thousand miles away to Richie. “I’ve missed you.” Eddie steps away from Richie’s arm, only stumbling once or twice without the support of Richie’s lean stature.

“Aw, Eds! You really know how to make a man swoon!” Richie presses one hand to the back of his head and mocks falling over, but his attempt to make Eddie laugh falls onto deaf ears for Eddie isn’t laughing. He’s only staring at Richie, or through Richie—Richie isn’t quite sure.

“Eds?”

Eddie moves toward him and steps up on the front of Richie’s boots to gain some height until their lips are almost even. Normally, Richie would think that it hurts, but his brain isn’t functioning properly—probably because he can’t fucking breathe because his chest is so tight that it burns.

“Eddie, what’re you—” Richie’s words fall short when Eddie pushes up and presses cool lips against his. It feels as if Richie’s been struck by lightning—he feels the shock across every inch of his skin and even past his skin to his bones and blood. He’s shaking, unable to fight against the sudden electric burn, and despite it being everything he’s ever wanted in life, he can’t kiss Eddie back. While Eddie’s eyes are closed, relaxed, Richie’s are wide open—two bulging saucers threatening to fall out of his head. He takes a step back, careful to keep Eddie from falling since he’s pulling his feet out from under Eddie’s.

“Eddie, you’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Not drunk,” Eddie slurs, and Richie cocks a brow at this.

“I’m not, Richie. I know what I’m doing, and I want this.”

“You want what?” Richie’s own heart betrays him in this very moment, and his voice comes out in a cracking whisper.

“You.” Eddie moves forward to kiss Richie again, but Richie holds a hand to Eddie’s chest to stop him.

“No, you don’t.”

“Shut the fuck up, Richie! You don’t know what I want!” Eddie wraps slender fingers around Richie’s hand that’s pressed up to his chest. “You asked me earlier if I was happy with my wife, and I’m not, Richie! I’m not fucking happy with her! I’m fucking miserable! I feel like—I feel like I can’t fucking breathe around her, and then I see you for the first time in—in—”

“—27 years,” Richie supplies softly.

“27 fucking years!” Eddie shouts, “and I can suddenly breathe without fucking help! That’s because of you, Richie!” Eddie jabs a finger against Richie’s chest. “I just fucking know it! You—you’re my inhaler, Richie!”

“That… That doesn’t make any sense, Eddie,” Richie mumbles. With each of Eddie’s words, his heart is shattering, falling away piece by piece. Maybe it’s dramatic, but it’s fucking true, and it fucking hurts. He thought learning that Eddie was married was bad, but this… this is way fucking worse.

“It does! I fucking need you, Richie! You’re the only person I need in my life!”

“Eddie—”

“I’m going to divorce her! That’s what I’ll do! I have the papers already—I’ve had them since we got married ten fucking years ago, and I’m going to go through with them! I’m going to do it for you!”

“Don’t,” Richie whispers. His eyes are burning, threatening to spill over, and he swallows past the lump building in his throat. “Look, I’ll request an Uber for you because you’re far too drunk to drive home. You’ll wake up tomorrow sober—with your wife—and everything will go back to normal. You will live your life, and I will live mine—how it’s always been.”

“Richie—”

Richie doesn’t respond. He opens his Uber app and puts in a rapid request for their current location, making a note that promises hefty pay for haste, and he gets three responses within seconds. He chooses the one that’s closest to him, the one that’s going to take one minute and 47 seconds to arrive, then turns back to Eddie.

“Two minutes—just hang tight for two minutes then your ride will be here.” He pulls out his wallet and hands Eddie a hundred dollar bill. “For the driver.”

Richie leans forward and reaches into his jacket pocket, ignoring how close he has to get to Eddie, until he snags his cigarettes and his lighter. “Keep the jacket. It’s cold out.” With that, Richie turns away. He can hear Eddie slump down onto the sidewalk, but he doesn’t turn back toward him. He pops a cigarette in his mouth instead.

“Richie, why are you leaving? I love you.”

Three small words are enough to break the wall Richie’s been building for his entire life, and yeah, it’s been crumbling here and there, threatening to shatter under the weight of repressed feelings, but he’s kept it up as much as possible, hiding behind pre-written jokes and bottles of alcohol for years. But now, it splinters down the middle and breaks away, and tears prick at his eyes. Still, he doesn’t turn around. He lights his cigarette with a shaking hand.

“Well, I don’t love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when you write a short, spontaneous multi-chapter fic, the angst happens fast. 
> 
> just one more chapter after this one, and then the epilogue!
> 
> next chapter will be October 11th!


	5. five

“Richie, shouldn’t you lay off the alcohol? You never have this much before a show.”

It’s Richie’s last show in Queens, meaning his last night in Queens. As soon as he walks off that stage, he’s headed straight to a plane so he can fly the fuck out of New York for good. He’ll go to his next city as a part of his tour, and he will continue doing what he does best—talking too much and making people laugh.

Still, tonight’s performance is going to be rough. He’s been blowing through glasses of whiskey hoping to erase the singular scene that’s been playing in his head since last night, yet nothing’s working. He can still hear his voice: _“Well, I don’t love you.”_

It disgusts him. He’s a lot of things, but he’s not a fucking liar, yet he had to say it. Eddie was out of his mind—too drunk on alcohol to know what was happening. It was for the best. He’s been telling himself that since last night, when he sobbed his whole hour walk back to his hotel, when he cried himself to sleep, when he woke up feeling like hell crept up past the Earth’s surface—he feels like he could curl up in a corner and die. He feels broken—his chest hurts more than his nose and hand combined. He wishes he never fell two nights ago—he wouldn’t be like this if he hadn’t.

“Richie, maybe you shouldn’t go on tonight. You look rough.”

Richie polishes off another glass of whiskey and stands, slamming his cup down and staring his manager down with somber eyes. “No, I’m doing it.”

“If you’re sure—”

“—I’m fucking sure.”

Like the smart man he is, his manager doesn’t argue with him. He only follows Richie as Richie walks toward stage left. He sucks in a deep, shaking breath then walks out onto the stage with a plastered smile and a far too cheery wave to the crowd.

His mic is front and center, and he steps toward it and immediately flows into his first joke. It’s a cheap laugh about clowns and sewers, but the audience eats it up—that is all but one man sitting deadass in the middle of the front row. Richie has to squint against the stage light to see, but after a few seconds, he can make out Eddie watching him with a frown. He’s still sporting Richie’s leather jacket, and though it’s hard to tell, it looks like he hasn’t slept a wink.

Shaking his head, Richie tries to shift into his next joke, one he’s said hundreds of times while on tour, yet his mind can’t seem to supply the punch line. His words keep catching—he can’t get Eddie’s face away from his thoughts, and finally, he just breaks down. He pulls his mic off the stand and plops down heavily onto the stool behind him. He’s been told before that he has a flare for the dramatics, and for some reason, that’s stuck with him. He lifts the mic to his mouth with a low sigh.

“Do you want to know what the real joke is?” He’s met with scattered applause and a few shouts of “yes.”

“My fucking life.” The audience roars with laughter—Richie’s always been the self-deprecating comedian—it’s his niche. So, he’s not surprised everyone laughed—everyone except for Eddie, of course.

“My childhood was spent talking too much, big fucking shocker—my friends would always tell me ‘beep, beep, Richie.’” More laughter, and Richie’s shoulders slump despite the amusement from the crowd.

“I talked my way out of so much shit throughout the years: bad grades, parking tickets, a real job…” This earns a roar of applause, and he cocks his head to the side. “But there’s one thing I just can’t seem to talk myself out of—not when I was a kid, and not now. I can’t…” He squints against the stage lights once more, eyes roaming until resting on Eddie’s furrowed face. “I can’t talk myself out of being gay.”

For the first time that night, he’s met with silence. Probably because his voice cracked against the heavy words he’s never uttered out loud—because he just opened up about his deep, dark secret to a room full of strangers… and to Eddie.

“My entire life I’ve spent in the closet—why does it have to be a closet, by the way? What am I doing? Just hiding behind some fucking clothes and shoes? Why can’t the socially acceptable phrase be ‘come out of the Lamborghini?’ Or, how about, ‘come out of the Chinese Buffet?’”

He breaks the tension, one of his few talents in life. The audience eats this up—cheering, clapping, laughing—and he grows off their momentum.

“At least coming out of a Chinese Buffet, you’re eating some good fucking food before you share your deep dark secret to the world.”

A man from somewhere in the audience shouts, “or shitting on a toilet,” and Richie can’t help but chuckle lightly at this.

“Yeah, or that. It’s just—it’s fucking hard, you know? You spend your entire life playing a part because it’s just easier than the alternative. From the day you’re born, you start creating this character, and—it’s like—you know when you watch a show and they replace an actor with someone else halfway through a season and the new person is nothing like the old person? It’s like that. You got so used to the first actor—how they act, how they talk, how they walk, and now you’re just fucking annoyed because you’ve got this noob who’s nothing like what you were used to.”

He pauses, feeling a weight pressing against his chest, but the audience, his fans, begin clapping and screaming words of encouragement. If he weren’t spilling his heart out to a group of strangers and to Eddie Fucking Kaspbrak, he would find the room to be a bunch of bumbling idiots who are enjoying some sap show when they paid for a comedy.

“I guess I should congratulate you all for being the first ones to know my deep dark secret, and maybe some of you are wondering, ‘Richie, how did you know you were gay?’ Well, let me fucking tell you—there’s this guy. I know, I know, that’s how all stories start, but I’m not going to lie and change up my story, got it?”

He sucks in a deep, shaking breath, and he locks eyes with Eddie’s. It’s hard with the stage lights, but he can feel Eddie’s gaze like a buzz within his tight chest.

“He was—no—he is my best friend. We grew up together, and he’s everything I absolutely hate in a person.” He pauses when the audience laughs at this. “First of all, he’s short as fuck, so biologically speaking, I’d be asking for future back problems if we ended up together. And, he’s the literal definition of worry—this guy had worry lines straight out of the womb.” He’s testing the waters, and when Eddie cracks a smile, Richie lets out a sigh he wasn’t aware he was holding.

“He also yells… a fucking lot. I know I yell, but shit—he must have to yell to compensate for his height.” An eyeroll from Eddie—he’s still doing okay.

“But, and here’s the part where I get all sappy and wear my heart on my sleeve, and blah, blah, blah—but, you know that dumb ‘opposites attract’ saying? That shit is definitely no lie. Everyday when I saw him, my heart would swell up like a big, fucking, balloon, and he was the needle pressed against it. He… He…” Richie stops, taking in a measured breath. “He never popped the balloon—he always got close, but he never did.”

“I spent the first 18 years of my life holding my breath, afraid that one wrong move would lead to everyone knowing my hidden secret, and I didn’t want anyone to know. See, I come from a small town, and you have normal bullies,” Richie pauses, holding his hand level with his mouth, “and then you have Henry Fucking Bowers.” He raises his hand high above his head.

“I guess,” Richie continues, dropping his hand back to his lap, “I guess I was afraid—of Bowers, of my friends thinking less of me, of suddenly having all eyes on me because for some fucking reason, all anyone cares about nowadays is if you prefer fucking the same sex or not.”

The theater rumbles from applause at this, and he nods. “Sounds like we’ve got a lot of repressed feelings in this room.” More clapping and a few bursts of laughter. “Yeah, I know—been there. Now, raise your hand if you’ve ever felt personally victimized by yourself.”

For a moment, no one in the audience moves, but then Eddie raises his hand, causing Richie’s heart to stutter uncomfortably in his chest, and then more and more people follow Eddie’s lead until more than half of the audience has their hands raised.

“It sucks, right? Because the biggest bully you’ll ever face in life is yourself. I’ve spent my entire life constantly cursing myself for being different. I would fall asleep every night wondering why I wasn’t normal—why I couldn’t look at women the way my friends did. When my other friends were gushing over cheerleaders at school, all I could think about was my best friend.”

Richie can see Eddie swipe a hand across his eyes, and he moves his own eyes away from Eddie, opting to stare at the stage below his feet.

“Two days ago, my best friend and I bumped into each other for the first time in 27 years. I’ve had 27 years to get over him, but, he’s my first crush—those ones just kind of stick with you. Seeing him felt like I was being sucked under a wave, the tide pulling me under deeper and deeper until he pulled me up. And for a moment, I was so fucking happy, but then he, uh, he told me he loved me, and I told him I didn’t love him back.”

In between the audience awing at his words, one person shouts, “Why? Because you’re a grenade?”

Richie can’t help but laugh at this. “No, I’m not fucking cliché, John Green.” More laughter, and he pulls himself back to focus. “E—my best friend has established a life for himself, and I… I’m not apart of it. I can’t be because I’m a walking problem—a living, breathing problem, and he doesn’t need that in his life. He’s made it 27 years just fine; he can make it a hundred more.”

“But he said he loved you.”

Richie gasps quietly into the mic, eyes darting toward Eddie, who’s on his feet and walking toward the stage.

“He didn’t mean it.”

“Why’s that up to you to decide?”

“Because,” Richie’s heart is hammering against his chest like a fucking jackhammer. “He was drunk—he—”

“—he meant what he said.” Eddie’s voice is firm, and Richie can only watch with bated breath as Eddie hops onto the stage and gets to his feet. “He meant what he fucking said, and you’re a fucking idiot if you think otherwise, Richie Tozier.”

“Eddie—I—I don’t understand. You—” Richie pulls away from his mic. “You’re wife—”

For the second time in less than 24 hours, Eddie Fucking Kaspbrak cuts Richie’s words off with firm, cool lips, and this time, Richie’s body pleads to kiss back. He briefly pulls away, and moves the mic back to his mouth, turning to face the audience. “If you guys could just, like, look away for a moment? I don’t want this to turn into some cliché E News article by tomorrow morning.”

With this, Richie lets the mic slip from his fingers, and he kicks away from the stool and leans down, pressing his lips to Eddie’s with force that’s been building up for years and years. For a moment, he can hear the audience going absolutely mad, and thus ignoring his one request; however, all sounds slowly begin to fade away until it feels as if it’s just him and Eddie standing on the stage.

“Your wife—” Richie mutters once more against Eddie’s lips, and Eddie pulls back with a frown.

“—I spent all night and all day today signing divorce papers and locating a really good lawyer.”

“Don’t uproot your life for me, Eddie.”

“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for me.”

Richie presses his lips to Eddie’s once more, the fingers of his good hand practically digging into Eddie’s arms while his bandaged hand rests on Eddie’s shoulder, just inches from his cheek. All at once, sounds come back like booming cracks of thunder, and Richie remembers that he’s standing on stage in front of hundreds of people. He bends down and snags his mic.

“Uh, hey, guys—remember when I was creepily sitting up here talking about how I’ve been pining after my best friend for, like, forever? This is him.” Richie nods toward Eddie, and Eddie rolls his eyes, a contrast to the wide smile playing across his lips as the cheer of the audience covers the entire theater.

Eddie pushes up on his toes and moves his mouth to Richie’s ears. “I love you.”

“I know.”

“Really, Richie?” Eddie grumbles, and Richie breathes out an easy laugh.

He feels as if after a lifetime of inhaling, of filling his lungs with secrets, feelings, and lies, he can finally exhale.

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the thing-- I was never planning on making this a multi-chapter. Is it great? No. Is it rushed? Yes. Did I have fun writing it? Yes. 
> 
> Prologue will be next Friday :)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to test the waters writing these two as complicated adults. This is my first attempt, and I hope it's okay!


End file.
